


Make Me Remember You Like You Remember Me

by flymeofftoneverland



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha Derek Hale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Happy Ending, Injured Stiles Stilinski, Light Angst, M/M, Mates, Memory Loss, POV Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Temporary Amnesia, True Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28567665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flymeofftoneverland/pseuds/flymeofftoneverland
Summary: After Stiles gets into a car accident, he wakes up in the hospital, remembering everyone but Derek.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 28
Kudos: 332





	Make Me Remember You Like You Remember Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EvanesDust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvanesDust/gifts).



> As with everything I do, this is for Dori. 
> 
> Title from Remember You by Wiz Khalifa.
> 
> All mistakes are my own.

  
Waking up feels like coming out from underwater. His senses feel dulled and syrupy-thick, but, if he focuses, he can make out the sound of frantic voices and a steady beeping that has him tempted to cover his ears, despite the fact that there’s a deep, throbbing ache in his left arm.

He lets his eyes flutter open and immediately regrets it. His head is pounding and the bright, artificial light buzzing above him is only making it worse. He groans and blinks a few more times, sending everything into focus.

From what he can tell, he’s in a hospital. The beeping he’d heard earlier must have been from one of the many machines he seems to be hooked up to, if the multitude of wires and tubes snaking up his arms are any indication. 

Suddenly, before he can take in any more of his surroundings, someone is standing over him—their head blessedly blocking out the blinding fluorescent light above him. 

He lets his eyes settle on the man’s face, taking in the concerned look that’s boring into him. That must mean they know each other. Or, at least, that the man knows Stiles. Huh. Why can’t Stiles place him? He knows himself and there’s no way he could ever forget a face this beautiful. 

He takes in the man’s features—his sharp jawline, dusted with stubble, pink lips that are turned down at the corners, dark, furrowed brows, and the most beautiful eyes Stiles has ever seen. For a moment, Stiles gets lost in the kaleidoscopic medley of colors—greens, golds, blues, and grays. Central heterochromia. He’d done a project on it in AP bio. 

Just as Stiles is getting lost in his thoughts—and those eyes—he’s broken out of his reverie when a familiar voice comes from off to his side, cutting through the blaring silence of the small room.

“Hey, kiddo. You doing okay?” 

Stiles breaths a sigh of relief. _Dad_. Thank god, finally someone familiar. Maybe _he_ could tell Stiles what happened—why he’d ended up here.

He opens his mouth and tries to speak, but all that comes out is a pitiful croak. 

Suddenly, the beautiful man from earlier is holding a paper cup full of water and ice up to his lips and instructing Stiles to drink through the straw, with a look of complete concentration and determination on his face, as if making sure Stiles is hydrated is the most important task in the world. Stiles’ first instinct is to laugh, but the only sound that came out is another one of those dry croaks, and he shoots an apologetic look at the man, who’s now scowling and holding the straw directly against his lips. Ok, maybe water _is_ a good idea. That way, he can at least do some digging and get to the bottom of how he ended up here in the first place.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he’s never felt more thirsty in his entire life. He hurriedly parts his lips and sucks in a mouthful of ice-cold water that coats his throat so perfectly that he can’t help but release a lewd moan at the feeling of pure _relief_.

“Control yourself, son.” His father says, causing Stiles’ face to heat up in a blush. He does his best to avoid looking at the man above him—who is still feeding him water, by the way. God, the poor guy probably feels insanely uncomfortable right now. 

Stiles hurries to gulp down the last of the water before shooting the man an apologetic grin, though it probably comes off as more of a wince. 

“Do you want more?” The man asks, ignoring his attempt to make amends for the soft-core porn noises he’d been making earlier.

Stiles goes to scratch at his jaw—a nervous habit of his—before feeling the tug of the wires and thinking the better of it. “I, uh, no, nope. I’m good. Uh, thanks.”

The man looks at him like Stiles is a complete idiot for thanking him. “Of course.” 

Stiles gives him a small, tight smile before turning his attention back to his father. “So, um, why am I here?” 

The sheriff shares a nervous glance with the other man before he speaks. “You don’t remember?”

Stiles shakes his head no and tries to ignore the panicked feeling that’s slowly settling in the pit of his stomach like an anvil. 

“Do you...do you remember your name?” 

Stiles nods. _Yes._

His dad sighs, visibly lighter. “Ok. Ok, that’s good. Do you remember who I am? How we know each other?”

Another nod. _Yeah, obviously. You’re my dad._

Both men in the room seem to sag in relief from his confirmation. 

His dad gives him a crinkly-eyed smile and pushes some of his hair back from his forehead. “I’m glad, son.”

They share fond smiles with one another before his father continues.

“And I’m guessing that means you remember everyone else, too? Scott, Lydia, Allison, and of course, Derek, here.”

Stiles furrows his brows in confusion. “Derek?”

He hears a choked off, pained sound coming from off to the side and finds the man from earlier staring at him with a mixture of shock and complete and utter devastation. 

“Dad?” Stiles whispers desperately, the tense silence in the room making the weight in his stomach grow heavier and heavier with each passing second. “Who’s Derek?” 

His dad exchanges a frantic look with the stranger and Stiles can only watch as they seem to have an entire conversation with their eyes. The longer Stiles waits for an answer, the more room starts to feel completely devoid of oxygen. 

“Stiles, son, Derek here is your boyfriend. You’re his...Derek is a werewolf—if you remember Scott, you must remember those, right?” He waits for Stiles to nod before continuing. “Son, Derek is an alpha. And you’re his mate.” 

Before he knows what’s happening, Stiles is sucking in desperate gasps of air and his vision starts to narrow down into one small point. All of a sudden, he feels too hot, too constricted, and his rib cage feels like it’s collapsed into his chest and pierced his lungs.

The steady beeping from the monitor beside his bed speeds up and sharpens into a crescendo of frantic noises that taunt him and echo in his eardrums. 

He’s having a panic attack. Logically, he knows that. He remembers having them after his mom died. But he's been so good recently. He’d taught himself how to control it. Or so he’d thought. Apparently, he should’ve accounted for the possibility that he would wake up one day, having completely forgotten the fact that he was not only in a relationship, but _mated_ to an alpha werewolf. Lydia _did_ always get on his case for being unprepared. 

Suddenly, a team of doctors and nurses burst into his room and his dad and Derek—his _mate_ —are being ushered out into the hallway by none other than Melissa McCall.

Stiles wants to reach out for her, wants to ask her to scoop him into her warm embrace and tell him everything’s going to be okay, like she always did when he and Scott were younger and Stiles would manage to scrape an elbow or knee in a failed attempt to land a trick on his bike or race Scott to the end of the street. But he can’t. He can’t talk or think or even _breathe_ right now.

Thankfully, Melissa knows him like she knows her own child, and she must have sensed that, being Stiles, he hates the unknown and that he needs someone to explain what the hell was going on before he loses his mind.

“Hi, sweetheart.” She flashes him her familiar motherly smile and takes his hand in hers. “We’re going to give you a light sedative—“

Stiles’ eyes go wide and he parts his mouth to protest, but she barrels on before he can get the words out.

“It’s going to be okay, Stiles. I promise. But you’re having a panic attack and your body can’t handle that kind of stress after the trauma you’ve gone through.” Her hand squeezes his lightly as she speaks. 

“You were in a car accident.” She clarifies. “The other driver ran a red light and hit you from the driver’s side. And, before you get yourself even more worked up, the Jeep will be just fine. Derek’s already paid the guys at the body shop for all the new parts.”

Stiles tries to sigh in relief, but his lungs are still contracting and all that comes out is yet another desperate gasp for air.

“Ok, honey, you ready?” She holds up a syringe of clear liquid and Stiles knows that she’s only asking him to be kind—that the liquid sedative is going in his veins one way or another, no matter what he says.

He nods and watches as the needle disappears into his skin. It’s only a few seconds before he feels his eyes shut and he’s thrown into the darkness.

* * *

  
When he wakes up again, there are no fluorescent lights to greet him. In fact, the room is completely dark, save for the light from the small TV on his wall and the red and green lights on his bedside monitor.

His dad is in the corner, sipping coffee out of a styrofoam cup and watching a show on the Discovery Channel, obviously not having noticed that Stiles is awake.

Stiles, not in the mood to talk and be fussed over yet, let’s himself get momentarily lost in the TV. He watches as a herd of lions maul an antelope, while a man with an English accent calmly explains—in gruesome detail—just how the poor antelope would be torn apart, in a voice so casual and composed that you’d think he was discussing the weather.

Eventually, the show goes to commercial and he figures that now is as good a time as ever to bite the bullet and let his dad know he’s awake.

“Hey, dad.” His voice still cracks a little, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it was the first time he’d woken up today. 

His dad turns in his seat abruptly and races over to Stiles’ bedside. “Kiddo! You’re up.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, dad.”

“You want anything? Water? Gatorade? Ice chips? Mel said no junk food, but I can have one of the deputies head over to the diner and pick up some curly fries for you.” Stiles’ heart swells with affection as he listens to him rattle off more of Stiles’ favorite foods that he can sneak past Melissa, as though he was smuggling contraband into a prison.

“No, it’s ok, dad. Thanks. Um, can you do me a favor, though?” He asks, fiddling with a loose thread on the thin hospital blanket. 

“Of course. Anything, kiddo.” 

“What—“ Stiles sucks in a breath and wills his voice not to crack. “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I remember my own mate? I can remember everyone else—Scotty, Lyds, Aly, even Jackson. Why don’t I recognize the one person I’ve apparently decided to spend the rest of my life with? And where is he, anyway? Did he decide to leave me?” Stiles asks, oddly panicked at the idea of losing someone he can’t even remember.

“First of all, kid, Derek would sooner drive his car off Beacon Bridge than leave you—“ Stiles tries to ignore the fact that it’s suddenly _much_ easier to breathe with that information. “—and _second of all_ , we called Deaton—you remember him, right? Scott’s boss at the clinic? Right, so he stopped by while you were out and explained some things.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows in a clear request for him to continue. 

“Alright, let me see, here. He gave me some pamphlets to read from, in case you had any questions.” Stiles watches as his dad roots around in his overnight bag and eventually pulls out a brightly colored booklet that has “ ** _Trauma, as it Relates to Human Mates_** ” written on the cover, with a cartoon of a brain underneath it. 

“Ok, here we go.” His dad says, adjusting his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose and clearing his throat before reading from the pamphlet. “When the human mate of an alpha werewolf experiences significant trauma, their body's automatic response is to focus every ounce of energy on finding your alpha. It’s a defense mechanism of sorts. Even with the trauma, your instincts will demand that you and your alpha get as far away from danger as possible so that your mate doesn’t get injured themselves.”

“But—“ Stiles cuts in, in protest, but his father just holds up one hand and continues on.

“Your instincts can’t tell the difference between something like a car accident and a legitimate ongoing threat. Your body just knows that something caused you harm—not whether or not it’s going to _continue_ causing harm—so it prioritizes getting to your mate and finding shelter, and ends up putting its own healing and wellbeing on the back burner.”

“But...that didn’t happen to me. I’m here, in a hospital, not camped out in a cave somewhere with Derek. I don’t remember him.” Stiles was still so confused. None of this even applied to him.

“I know you don’t remember, son, but when you first got here, Mel said you didn’t have any control over yourself. You were thrashing around and fighting everyone off, trying to get to Derek. They couldn’t risk you hurting yourself anymore, so they had to give you a sedative and a paralytic to stop you from moving. After a while, when your body realized it wasn’t going to be able to reach your alpha, it created a sort of selective memory loss to prevent itself from going into shock.”

“What does that mean? Am I ever gonna get my memories back?”

“As your body heals and the shock subsides, you should make a full recovery.” Stiles looks up at the sound of a second voice, and sees Melissa standing in the doorway with a fresh cup of coffee that she hands to his dad. “Here. You need this.”

“I’m fine.” He sighs, but accepts the coffee anyway.

“Yeah? You might want to tell that to your face.” 

“Ugh, you guys are adorable.” Stiles groans. “Why don’t you just go on a date already?”

He watches in amusement as his dad sputters around a mouthful of coffee and Melissa averts her eyes and busies herself with flipping through his chart. 

“I should get going. I need to check on some other patients before I head home.” She gives the sheriff a small smile and turns towards Stiles. “Try not to get into too much trouble.”

“No promises!” Stiles calls to her retreating figure. 

The moment she was out of sight, his dad sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Was that really necessary, son?”

He sips the last of the boxed apple juice that his dad had picked up for him from the cafeteria, slurping the last drops of juice obnoxiously. “You forget who you’re talking to.” He says around a mouthful of chewed-up straw.

“My mistake.” He scoffs.

After a moment of comfortable silence, a nagging thought makes itself known in the forefront of his brain. 

“Hey dad?”

His father hums in acknowledgement as he scrolls through his phone. 

“Where’s Derek? I thought wolves didn’t like being separated from their mates.” Stiles was trying not to take the fact that Derek had barely shown himself since he’d first woken up personally, but it was hard not to notice the absence of the one person in the world who he couldn’t remember, yet apparently built his life around. 

“After today, that seems to be the understatement of the century. Poor guy’s been going crazy. He refuses to eat or drink, and he’s been pacing the halls so much that the nurses had to get him an empty room to wait in. It’s a miracle he hasn’t sprouted any grey hairs since he left you.” 

“Then why isn’t he here?” Stiles can’t understand why the man would torture himself like that for no reason. Why wander the halls of a hospital for hours on end instead of keeping Stiles—his _mate_ —company?

“Because, kiddo, as much as it drives him crazy not to be with you, he knew you were overwhelmed and figured you’d probably want your space.”

Stiles huffs. “Well I don’t! At least, not anymore. I was just confused, okay? It’s not every day you wake up in the ICU and find out you’re werewolf married to an Greek god slash underwear model. Slash sexy hitman. I mean, seriously, those eyebrows are—“

He’s interrupted when his dad rolls his eyes and pats him on the head. “Alright, I think that’s my cue to go tell Derek that you’re ready to see him now.” 

“Ok. Oh! Wait! How do I look?” He reaches for the spoon from his pudding cup to check his reflection, before realizing it’s made of plastic. 

In lieu of answering, his dad heaves a great put out sigh and runs a hand down his face exasperatedly. “Never change, son.” He shakes his head and, with that, walks out the door in search of Derek.   
  


* * *

  
A few moments later, Stiles watches as a very nervous, very shy werewolf tentatively makes his way into Stiles’ room—clearly giving Stiles time to tell him to leave. He has to force a smile down at the image of a big, strong, tough alpha—who could easily crush anyone he wanted into a pile of dust—being so careful and gentle with him. Stiles still doesn’t remember the man, but he’s already completely enamored.

Eventually, Derek stops walking once he’s fully inside the doorway, standing stiffly and looking anywhere but Stiles. He can tell that Derek’s holding himself back, and, as much as he appreciates the extra caution, it’s really not necessary.

“You can come closer. I won’t bite.” Stiles says, giving Derek a gentle, encouraging smile and patting his bed.

After a moment, Derek gives in and takes another step towards him. When it’s clear that Derek’s not planning on coming in any further, Stiles gives a small nod towards the chair next to his bed that his father had used. 

Despite his hesitance, Derek lets himself give in to what he and his wolf both desperately need and approaches his mate.

“How do you feel?” Stiles asks, gently, taking in Derek’s disheveled state and tired, hollow eyes.

Derek huffs out a humorless laugh. “Shouldn't I be the one to ask _you_ that?”

“You first. How are you— _really_?” Stiles narrows his eyes, as if that would better help him decipher Derek’s mental state.

“Fine.”

Stiles sighs. “Come on, big guy, give me something to work with here.”

“I’m...managing.” Derek grits out. 

Stiles snorts. “I have a feeling that means you’re about one more cup of cold cafeteria coffee away from clawing through one of these walls.”

Derek gives him a small smile—the closest thing to actual happiness that Stiles has seen from him since he first woke up. “Maybe.” 

Their smiles stall on their faces as they take each other in for the first time after the accident. 

“Hey, can I ask you some questions? About us?” Stiles asks, after he’s broken out of the trance that Derek’s unfairly beautiful eyes had put him in.

“Anything. Anything you want.”

“So...how did we meet?” Stiles asks, biting on the corner of his nail. He figures he might as well start at the beginning.

Derek smiles wistfully, as he remembers—a private smile that Stiles hopes he can share in soon. 

“We were having a pack night to celebrate the betas finishing school and Erica asked if she could bring a friend.”

“I’m guessing I was that friend?”

Derek nods, a softness overtaking his eyes.

“Is that when you knew I was your mate?”

“Looking back now, I think my wolf did. The second you walked in and I smelled you. He knew. But I was too stubborn to accept it. You were so young at the time. You’d just graduated high school and I was four years older than you. It took a few more months before I stopped trying to fight it.”

“What do I smell like to you?” Stiles asks, with bated breath. He knows that Alphas first identify their mates by smell, and that their mates’ specific aroma is every alphas biggest weakness.

Derek’s eyes slip shut and he lets himself take a deep, greedy inhale of Stiles’ scent. Under the smell of the hospital—the metallic detergent smell of the heavy-duty ammonias and cleaning agents, the small amounts of dried blood that the nurses had missed when they had cleaned Stiles off, the thin, stiff robe that hung loosely over Stiles’ shoulders—was the unmistakable smell of his mate.

“Like autumn. Like apples, cinnamon, caramel, and allspice.” Derek takes another deep inhale and Stiles watches as his pupils dilate and his irises turn ruby-red. “Like _home_.”

Stiles’ mouth goes dry and he can’t help but let his jaw drop open.

“And, um. When you’re...aroused—” Derek continues. 

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath. “—You smell like rhubarb. 

“Rhubarb?”

Derek nods, and, when he talks, his voice is deeper and tougher than it was a moment ago. Stiles doesn’t have to see his teeth to know that his fangs have dropped. It’s only further confirmed for him when he hears a slight lisp when Derek continues. 

“‘S bright, and sharp, and sweet, and kind of tart, but in a good way.”

“Tart, but in a good way.” Stiles repeats to himself. “Like sour patch kids?”

Derek throws his head back and laughs—a big, spectacular, joyous sound that Stiles wants to hear for the rest of his life. He watches as Derek’s entire face is overtaken with pure, unadulterated happiness and amusement. His multi-colored eyes squeeze shut and crinkle at the corners, and he smiles so widely that Stiles gets a look at the most adorable set of bunny teeth that ever existed. 

_He’s beautiful._

Stiles has about a million more questions to ask Derek, but he’s still weak and completely drained. He tries to stifle a yawn but fails spectacularly. 

“You should sleep.” Derek says, gently.

He has a point. Stiles is exhausted. But the thought of cutting his time with Derek short feels impossible.

Sensing Stiles’ hesitation, he adds, “I won’t leave. I promise. I’ll still be here.”

Stiles nods. There’s one thing, however, that he needs to get off his chest first. “I’m sorry.” 

Derek frowns and looks at Stiles like he’s lost his mind. “For what?”

“I—I’m sure this hasn’t been easy for you. I’m your mate and I don’t remember you. I know this must be killing you.” He says, picking at his nail beds.

“You have nothing to apologize for. None of this is your fault. I’m the one who owes you an apology. I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you.” Stiles’ heart clenches painfully at the intense regret and self-loathing in Derek’s voice. He has a feeling the ‘wolf has a tendency to internalize things, and hopes that his normal self doesn’t let Derek get away with that kind of thinking often.

“You can’t blame yourself for that. This wasn’t anyone’s fault. Except maybe the guy who ran that red light.”

Derek growls menacingly and his eyes glow a deep, blood red—a chilling display of just how quickly an alpha can lose control when it comes to the safety of their mate.

“It’s okay, big guy. I’m alright now.” Stiles says, bringing Derek back to the present.

Before either of them can say anything more, Stiles heaves another great yawn. 

“Alright, now you _definitely_ need to sleep.” Derek says, 

“ _Hnng_ okay.” Stiles says, around another yawn. “Night, Der.” The nickname slipped out of his mouth naturally, but he’s so close to sleep that he doesn’t even register that he does it.

Derek pauses for a moment, trying to regain his composure before he’s finally able to speak again. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

He falls asleep with Derek’s hand clasped tightly in his. 

* * *

  
Stiles stirs, blinking his eyes open blearily. He doesn’t know how much time passed since he fell asleep, but he’s no longer in the ICU. He doesn’t know _where_ in the hospital he is, exactly, but he’s obviously been moved to an area for less high risk patients.

_Thank god._

He’s beyond relieved to finally be in the clear. His memory is still hazy, but he remembers a doctor coming in before he’d slept, and explaining that all the tests they ran on him have confirmed that there was no significant damage, aside from a sprained wrist and a cut on his forehead that required three stitches. 

As he takes in his surroundings, his eyes fall on the sleeping, hunk of a werewolf, folded in on himself in the small leather chair in the corner of the room. He’s snoring softly in his sleep and his hair is slightly matted from using his folded up jacket as a makeshift pillow.

The sight is so painfully adorable that it nearly gives Stiles heart palpitations. 

It kills him to wake up his sleeping mate—especially when Stiles knows that Derek has been through unspeakable stress today, but he has something to tell him and it just can’t wait until he wakes up. Plus, he’d rather do this now, while they still don’t have an audience.

“Der?” Stiles mumbles, sleepily.

“Stiles?” Derek, despite normally being an extremely heavy sleeper, wakes up immediately and almost knocks his chair over in an attempt to get to Stiles, and, once he gets close enough, immediately takes his hand in his.

Stiles can’t help but to be taken aback by the man standing above him.

“Hi.” He breathes, in awe and wonderment. He feels as if he’s seeing Derek for the very first time again. 

Derek’s eyes frantically rake over every inch of Stiles’ face, desperately searching for any kind of tell.

“Do you—I mean, are you—” Derek stumbles over his words—a nervous tick that makes Stiles’ heart swell in the rare moments when it appears. The last time Derek had stuttered like this was when he’d asked Stiles to be his mate— _officially_.

Stiles reaches for his hand and squeezes. “Yeah, big guy. I remember.”

Derek breathes out a shaky sigh, like he could finally breathe properly for the first time in years, and Stiles’ heart can’t help but to break for his mate. He can’t even begin to imagine how he would’ve felt if Derek suddenly forgot who he was. The fact that he’s still sane and functioning is more than Stiles would have been able to say for himself.

After he takes a moment to collect himself, Derek starts to lean in but stops himself abruptly. “I—could we...I’d like to kiss you. If that’s ok with you? We don’t have to, if you’re not ready yet. But...would you? Be okay with me kissing you, that is?” 

Stiles rolls his eyes fondly at Derek’s adorable awkward attempt to respect Stiles’ boundaries—as if Stiles still _has_ any boundaries when it comes to Derek—and pulls him in by the back of his head, kissing him before he can say anything else.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here.” Stiles murmurs, once they come up for air. “We’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”

Derek smiles against his lips.

“Whatever you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> 🐺❤️🦊
> 
> Find me on tumblr @sterekficrecs!


End file.
